Of Memory
by InkedFeather
Summary: Methos shares his earliest memories.
1. Chapter 1

I reread this story because I'm working on a third chapter, possibly a sequel, and thought it needed a little more meat on the bones. Here is the new meatier "Of Memory" chapter one. Revised Chapter two will be up shortly. I haven't changed the story, just filled it in a little. Thanks for reading!

Rated M for language

I do not own any of these characters. I'm only borrowing them for a time and will be put them back on their dusty shelves.

************************************************** ******Of Memory******************************************** ****************************

Joe was not doing well. His years were catching up to him, he was coming to his end, and he knew it. But so did his circle of friends. Perhaps more clearly than he. Each in their own time and way came to say goodbye and move on with their lives. Even MacLeod, always caught up in saving someone, could only say a quick goodbye before moving on to a cause not so lost. It was, however, the last person Joe expected to stick around that did. Methos, his cynical old friend who didn't seem to care about anyone or anything, that stayed by his side. Going so far as to sleep in the uncomfortable hospital chairs until Joe was finally released home. Where Methos continued to stay with him.

It had been weeks and today, like many before it, Joe slept a lot while Methos wandered around the house a lot. Keeping himself busy with Joe knew not what. By noon they met up in the living room when the smell of lunch made its way into every nook and cranny of the small home. Methos helped him to the couch and brought him a bowl of soup and a slice of warm bread. He did the same for himself but chose to sit on the floor in front of the couch, his legs sprawled beneath the coffee table.

It smelled delicious and Joe was pleased to find it tasted as good. As if he could hear his thoughts, Methos turned, "Good?"

"Delicious man. You made this?" Methos grinned, bowed his head slightly, and turned back around, blowing on his spoon as he did. "Thanks." Joe added.

With another miniscule bow Methos began to explain the soups ingredients and why they were beneficial. "Sounds very holistic." Joe said once he had finished, "Too holistic to taste this good."

Methos shrugged, "Well, it's not exactly canned chicken noodle soup but it works."

They ate, they talked, and when they were done Methos cleaned up their mess. He returned to his spot on the floor in front of the couch when he was done but he now had a book with him. Assuming Joe would sleep he opened it and began to read.

After a few minutes Joe asked, "What are you reading?" not truly interested but feeling the need for conversation. Methos closed the book, turning it over in his hands as if he were seeing it for the first time. "This? Just some dribble about Nero. Very inaccurate but it has its entertainment value." He smirked, "If Nero…"

"Methos" Joe interrupted, allowing himself a little rudeness all things considered.

Methos put the book down unfazed by the interruption, "Yeah Joe?"

"What's something you've never told me?"

Methos looked simultaneously amused and puzzled, "About myself?" Joe nodded, "Something like I have a love/hate relationship with wool sweaters and an insatiable need for cheese curds now and then?"

Joe grinned at his friends' side-stepping. "Really, cheese curds?"

"It's an acquired taste."

"No doubt. How about something a little more enlightening?"

The side-ways boyish grin melted from Methos' face, "I'm all out of enlightening Joe."

Joe threw up his hands. He hadn't meant to touch a nerve, "Okay not enlightening, but, yuh know, something we haven't talked about. Something deeper than wool sweaters."

"What did you have in mind?" Methos asked, the smile still not returning to his lips.

Joe stared at him a beat, questioning the merits of his choice of conversation, before plunging in. "How about your earliest memories. I know you don't remember much but what, when do your memories start? All these years man and I've never pushed." When Methos looked away without responding and stayed silent for too long, Joe added. "If you don't remember, you don't remember. I would just like to know you a little better before…" He dropped it, it wasn't worth pointing out that particular elephant in the room.

Methos exhaled and sat very still. There was no response beyond the tense stillness that stretched beyond his frame. After a few minutes, just about the time Joe was ready to move on, his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he said, "Make me a deal."

Joe shifted, "Name it."

"Nothing I tell you leaves this room. No watcher notes. No what-ifs, or hints about my life need to ever slip into a conversation. What I tell you goes in one ear out the other." He stared at Joe, "Deal?"

Joe gave him an are-you-kidding-me look in return, "Hell yeah, of course." He made a lips sealed motion across his lips, "Just between you and me."

It was Methos' turn to shift in his seat. He turned to look more fully at Joe. Again he sat quietly for a few minutes before taking a deep breath and saying, "I've lied to you Joe." Joe began to say something along the lines of 'tell me something I don't know' or 'there's a newsflash' when Methos continued. "I remember it all."

"All of…" Joe stuttered but before he could finish the thought Methos continued, "Names, dates, places are all fuzzy at times but I remember the core of it."

Joe took a moment to think about what his friend was saying. It wasn't as if it was such a leap to believe that Methos would lie about remembering but he had to ask, "Why lie?"

Methos shook his head, "It wasn't deception for the sake of deception. I had to. I couldn't go into it. The world has changed so much. I've changed so much…" He stood and paced. "Spouting useless info about Rome or Egypt is easy. It sets me outside of history somehow. It's impersonal and flippant. Everyone has a picture in their mind of those times, so many preconceived notions. I can throw out an appetizer and it's received like a full course meal." He stopped for a moment, "All the bits I remember of those early years are much harder to tell…"

He was growing agitated at the prospect of telling the whole truth now that he was committed and Joe could see it. Joe hadn't thought of it as being that hard of a thing to ask, this rending of artifice, but he could see it for what it was now. "Hey, whatever you tell me goes with me." He said to ease Methos' nerves.

"You don't think I know that." He looked at the ceiling and sighed. He dropped his shoulders and slumped onto the edge of the couch next to Joe. "I'm sorry Joe but that doesn't make it any easier." He looked away, "It's been lifetimes. It's hard for me to think back, to remember, it's a difficult thing on so many levels." He looked at Joe apologetically.

"And I'm leaving." Joe added sensing his friend no matter how old and wise he may be did not look forward to being left alone with newly stirred recollections that, he could only imagine, must not be all that spectacular. Joe knew, he had been there in some ways. He had seen war and those were stories you didn't tell so easily, not the ugly, dirty ones that left your soul feeling as if you would never lose the stain.

Methos looked at Joe, approval in his eyes at his friends' partial understanding. "There is that." He said. The part Joe couldn't understand was the simple difficulty of sifting through so many years of memory. The bone deep weariness of the effort and of how he feared the tenacious emotions that it stirred in him. It was draining and though Methos wasn't a lazy man the prize had to be at least somewhat worth the effort.

Throwing in the towel Joe said, "Maybe it's not a fair thing to ask."

Moments passed before Methos exhaled loudly and knelt in front of the couch, "It's fair. It's more than fair. I'm just a damn bloody coward." He patted Joe's shoulder, stood, and walked away. Disappearing into the kitchen. Joe could hear the fridge door open and close, quickly followed by the pop of two bottle caps loosening their seal. Methos reappeared with a beer bottle in each hand. He paused, looked at the bottles in his hands, looked at Joe and said, "Did you want one?"

At first, Joe was distracted by his own thoughts. He didn't hear what Methos had asked but noticing the open bottles, one leaning his direction, he put two and two together, "Oh yeah, yeah sure." Methos handed one over and swilled the other. He returned to the kitchen to grab another bottle. When he returned he pulled a side chair over to the couch, slapped his crossed legs on the coffee table, cradled his beer between his hands, and sat silent for an endless stretch of time. Again, for the third time, Joe thought he should say something to fill the silence but before he could Methos began quietly.

"So I was a foundling. We all are of course. But in those days I was lucky to have been taken in and not left to die a thousand miserable deaths as an infant." He paused for a drink before continuing, "Foundlings were, as you can imagine, looked upon with uncertainty. They were either a gift from the gods or a curse, an evil spirit in human form. I was treated as both by those who found me. Held at arms' length the tribe looked at me as something to be suspicious of, to be guarded against, but to be kept in case I were a blessing. I belonged to the tribe, simple as that. I was no one's child." He frowned, "I'm not sure they saw me as a child. I worked for them. I hunted with them. I did any task asked of me and was grateful for any scrap of food or affection I received in return. A stray dog." He paused for another drink.

"Did you have anyone? Anyone you felt close to?" Joe had to ask.

"No one that I remember. No one that I would remember after all this time."

"Jesus, Methos, sounds lonely." Joe said. It wasn't a story confined to ancient times. Joe had seen many modern immortals whose history included time in foster homes that treated them as nothing more than household help. It was a hard start and it usually made them tougher or it broke them entirely.

Methos shrugged, "It was the only life I had known. I learned things that I've used to survive all this time. I like to think it wasn't for nothing." Joe could see where it most likely had made him into the survivor he proved to be but was that enough of a balance for all that it had denied him, Joe had to wonder.

"So I lived like that with them for thirteen or so years doing what was expected of me, living on the outskirts, but content enough." Methos continued. "When I began to hear whispers. I was nearly a man. It was going to become more difficult to keep me under thumb. Something needed to be done. A decision had to be made." He paused. "I should have left then but I had hope." He said hope with venom on his tongue as he rose to get another beer. "Want one?" He waved his empty bottle at Joe.

Joe looked down at his own bottle. Now empty as well he said, "Thanks."

Methos reappeared, two bottles in each hand. He gave one to Joe with the lid removed and slumped back into his chair. "Where was I?"

"Thirteen." Joe spurted out mid-sip.

Methos nodded, took a drink, and let out a breath. "Ah, so long story short. Just as we were preparing to move the camp to summer grounds. I was dragged from sleep and tied to the base of a tree that would be submerged by a nearby stream when the rains came. They finished packing up camp and left."

"Just like that. Thirteen years old and they walked away." Joe more stated than asked.

Methos slapped his free hand onto his leg and rubbed it as if removing dirt, "Problem solved. I meant nothing to them beyond the potential trouble I posed, and conveniently, it was the rainy season and I would be completely underwater in only a few days. Returned to whatever underworld I came from." Joe shook his head at the callousness. Methos laid his head on the back of the chair and gazed above Joe's head. "For days the rain fell as I watched the water in the stream rise higher and flow faster. I thought my life was over by the time the water was up to my chest and unseen objects slapped against my frozen side. But it was then, when I was resigned to death, that I was rescued." He took another drink, "A wanderer, a solitary man pulled me to safety and patiently waited for me to come to my senses. He built a fire, fed me, and let me sleep all without a word exchanged or a request made. It was enough to make me suspicious but the next day he invited me to travel with him. He said he could offer me nothing but safety as far as he could promise it. I looked at the base of the tree, where I had spent the last few days, now fully submerged beneath the rushing waters. Safety was all I wanted." Methos put his bottle down and began to rub his hands together as if to warm himself from the chill of his memories. "We travelled for years together." He continued, "I don't remember his name. I'm not sure he ever gave it. He knew what I was and he warned me time and again to be prepared for a life of wandering, of moving on. A life of letting go, of not making attachments to people or places. He warned me but I did not understand so I did not listen."

"He was immortal? He was your teacher?" Joe asked.

"Yes, but I'm not sure he had any idea of the game. He never mentioned it and we never trained as far as I can remember. He believed we were simply some forsaken cursed beings left to wander the earth. That we weren't a threat to each other but we couldn't coexist with "normal" people without everyone suffering for it. He didn't tell me about my immortality until after, after my first death." Methos stood and began to pace slowly. Joe watched him intently. "We lived like that, the two of us traveling, walking from place to place for at least ten years. He was the closest thing to family I had known. He was kind and patient. I grew into an older man in his presence. Most didn't live past their twenties and I was around twenty-three when we parted for the first time." Methos paced silently.

"How old was he?" Joe took advantage of the opening in his story.

Methos smiled faintly. "I remember thinking he was the oldest man I had ever seen. Maybe in his late forties, early fifties at his first death. Probably no older than a couple hundred years by the time he found me."

"So pretty young in the scheme of things."

"Now, yes, but then he was ten times older than the oldest mortal. I'm sure he felt ancient."

Joe took it in, "So you parted for the first time…"

Methos took a deep breath. Stealing himself from his own thoughts once again. "Something had happened. I couldn't keep going and we turned to one of the small settlements we would normally avoid for help." His eyes took on a distant look and a smile teased his lips. "That's when I saw her. I cannot remember her name and believe me I have tried. But I remember everything else about her. She was the widowed daughter of the couple who took me in. As she helped her mother tend to me I fell in love with her. Her auburn hair caught the firelight and once there it danced upon gentle waves of deep browns and reds. Her eyes were blue as the sky in midsummer. She was gorgeous. I had seen nothing like her and I was lost.

Joe thought she sounded something like Alexa but wouldn't dare to mention it.

Methos sat down once again, "The wanderer moved on the next day leaving me to recover in the families care. I grew more infatuated with the widowed daughter and once able made myself useful around the settlement. All to win her over. Months passed, my body healed, and though many times the wanderer passed through asking me to come with him I stayed. I eventually built a sturdy home, grew a healthy enough crop, and hunted more than enough meat for the entire village. It was then that she agreed to be my wife." He picked up his beer again and took another drink. "We shared everything, as husband and wife do. She told me of her first husband. How she had loved him and lost him to a feverish illness. How the gods had never granted them a child and how it had pained her and brought them shame. I told her of my mysterious origins. Of having no one and nothing to call my own until her, of my years wandering, of all the things it still pains me to admit. We thought our fortune had changed. Surely the gods had embraced us. They had given us each other. We lived like that, content and happy, assured in our love for many years. We never had a child but we never lost hope that we would, even as we grew older. I loved her completely Joe. She was my first love after all, and we never allow ourselves to love so entirely again do we?" He shook and lowered his head with the approaching memory, "Unfortunately all things have their end. One day while hunting I stumbled too close to a bull elk. It charged, following every instinct it possessed. I had nowhere to run and it trampled me, gouging my stomach with its giant antlers before disappearing into the forest. I fought and crawled my way back to the village only to die hours later in my home." He took another weighted pause.

There was nothing for Joe to say. He had questions to ask but death had made an appearance and as always its presence brought with it silence.

Methos cleared his throat, his head still bowed. "As my wife washed my body and mourned her loss, all the more painful for being twice received, I returned to life." He finally looked up at Joe. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, "She was terrified of me at first but I convinced her I couldn't truly have died and so we convinced the village. But there was no way to explain why my wounds healed quickly and cleanly. For that there remained a lingering suspicion. I didn't know what had happened. I didn't know what I was. I became uncertain, unsettled and as the winter season passed all looked on me with a subtle fear…even my beloved wife. When the rainy season came but the rains did not we began to panic, first a little and then a lot. We lived at the whim of nature and the gods, our lives balanced on a fine edge." He stopped. "Do you want to take a break?" He asked Joe.

"No thanks." He felt bad. He knew Methos was more asking for a break than offering one but he also knew that if he walked away from the story now he wouldn't come back.

Methos nodded regretfully and took another drink. "They became desperate for an answer so naturally fingers began to point toward me. I should have died months ago. Balance had been lost with my unexplainable survival. I would have to be sacrificed. It was the only way. They tried several ways but to their frustration I kept coming back." Methos smirked at the thought. You had to be there, Joe thought, but as quickly as the smirk had come upon his lips it went away, "It was my wife that finally put an end to it. She suggested that if it was water they wanted I should be sacrificed to the great water, they should sink me into the sea."

"Had you told her about the tree, about your tribe leaving you to drown?" Joe had to ask, shocked at the cruelty if it were so.

"Of course. And I'm sure she thought of that. She was a smart one." Methos winked. Sometimes Joe questioned his friends' sanity. "We walked for miles to a coast. Once there they scrambled over cliffs and tide-pools to find just the right spot to carry out what had to be done." He shrugged, "In the end I did not revive, their sacrifice had been made, and there I stayed."

"She let them leave you there?" Joe felt an anger rise in him.

Methos raised his hands. "It wasn't really something she could stop. Anyway, she no longer believed I was the man she loved. I was an abomination, a curse, the walking dead. If she had any love left for me she overcame it to save her people. I have to respect that…in retrospect."

"So what happened? How did you get out?" Joe felt like he should stop asking questions, should let the conversation slip away. He could see the toll it was taking on Methos but he had to hear a little more.

"It was the wanderer. He had come to visit me, as he often did, and was received with fear. I could not be found and no one would give him answers. He figured it out and began looking for me." Methos rubbed his brow, eyes closed.

"They didn't stop him?"

Methos laughed out loud, "Oh, I'm sure they avoided him like the plague."

Joe shook his head. "How long before he found you?"

"I don't know." Methos shrugged, "Long enough for the seasons to change. Maybe a few months."

"Shit Methos! You must have gone nuts." Joe couldn't imagine what the old man had gone through. Reviving only to drown again, and again, and again. A shadow passed over Methos, "It's not like I was conscious any of that time. One minute I was drowning the next…I felt nothing."

"So what you just dried yourself and moved on?" Joe didn't believe it. He thought that Methos was leaving this bit of the story out. He could see the haunted look in his friends' eyes and he knew. He knew even if Methos would never admit it, not even to him, or himself, that there was more to be told about those months in the water.

"No, not exactly. I tried to stay with the wanderer. He explained what we were as best he could, as best as he understood it. He encouraged me to let the past go and I tried for a time to find peace. But when that initial numbing receded I was left always watching for them, the tribe, the villagers, my wife. I walked like that, in a state of shame and fear. Emotions that fueled a growing rage."

"Your wife. Did you ever see her again?" Joe asked. Methos stared at him a moment with a look that made Joe wonder if it would have been wiser to not ask. How much would Methos give before he'd had enough?

"No, no the wanderer was thoughtful enough to steer us away from the village even at the price of convenience from time to time. I'm sure he could see I had changed. I had always tried so hard to be optimistic, to be and do good. Even if what he said about us were true. But after, after I didn't care. I walked. Where he went I followed. Accepting my place as this cursed…thing. When I could take it no more I told him that I had to move on. I had to cross the waters. I suppose I wanted to find death." Methos abruptly stopped his story. Noticing he had gone through three beers, he said. "My god these bottles are tiny."

"There's more downstairs. Care to bring up some whiskey too?" Joe needed it.

"Not at all Joe, not at all." With that Methos stood and disappeared downstairs. Joe sat thinking about what his friend had told him. He saw Methos more clearly. From what he had seen working with the Watchers immortals remained forever as they were in that first lifetime. They became wiser over the years of course, hardened by time, but all the same they remained who they were. Duncan for perfect example would always be the proud Scottish Highlander raised in an age of chivalry. It was now apparent that Methos, raised in a brutal age, held at arms-length with suspicion and fear; a man who on faith of goodness gave the world a second chance only to be cut down more harshly for it. He would always be just out of the reach of understanding. He instilled doubt, suspicion, and distrust by nature. It seemed a mark had been placed upon him. Joe had to admit even he only believed half of what Methos said and wondered his reasons for being honest the other half of the time. The old man seemed always up to something in the shadows and maybe he was. He had good reason to keep his business his own. Was that really so wrong? Did he deserve to spend his life the untrustworthy unknown? Joe found himself wishing they had had this conversation earlier. Soon Methos returned, disrupting his thoughts.

"Thought I'd join you in the whiskey." He held two bottles.

"No glasses?" Joe asked.

"The bottles are made of glass Joe. Let's just pretend that counts shall we." He took a long drink, "Woohaaa, that's good."

Joe took a smaller sip, "Only the best." He hated to push but he wanted more of the story. "So you crossed the waters. Which waters?"

Methos shook the whiskey's sting from his mouth, "Ah, It's hard to say. All I have to go on is the limited understanding of geography I had at that time and my spotty memories. But I think I was in Wales. I think I crossed at the channel."

"And you never saw the wanderer again?"

"No, as far as I know he's still hiding somewhere in Wales." Methos smiled at the thought, "If only I believed it were possible."

"It's not?" Joe's imagination was racing with the possibility.

"Once the game found its way to the island he would have been an easy target. Even the dodgiest of us can only survive without a sword for so long." He seemed to get a little side-tracked in his thoughts before continuing. "No matter. Once on the shore I found my way to as empty an area I could find and stayed there for a while. I found more ready aggression in Europe and learned to defend myself quickly. I relished those moments. I admit it. I had quite the bloodthirsty nature at that point. I suppose you're right I had gone mad, truly, deeply mad. I still tried to avoid contact with others despite that fact." He paused thoughtfully, "Or because of it. Either way I made my way through as empty a landscape I could find and set about making a home for myself. I lived like that for hundreds of years."

"What changed?"

Methos inhaled more whiskey, "Kronos."

"Kronos." Joe said with all the loathing he could muster through the whiskey's numbing warmth.

"Yes. Him. That guy. He was raised a chieftain's son. An heir to a brutal throne. He was taught and groomed in all the heartless ways to lead and conquer, but even the most certain of futures can change on the drop of a dime. One night his mother, having lived with a lie for too long and seeing the evil in her son, confessed to her aging husband, the chieftain; that their true child had died shortly after birth. Kronos had been an abandoned baby brought to her in the dark of night by a loyal nursemaid. His father was enraged. He woke Kronos from his sleep, ripped him from his home and called him a changeling, a demon. He cursed him and begged for his true son. Kronos, a grown man at that point, ignorant of his mother's long deceit confessed his innocents. When his father told him his mother's story Kronos killed her at his father's feet. Enraged to the point of madness his father slayed him beside her. Kronos returned to life stripped of everything he had known. He had no people to lead, no world to conquer, no land or wealth. All that was left to him was his anger and his entitlement. He found me shortly thereafter. Having spent several years in the woods I had grown calm within my isolation. It made it easy enough for him to slip into my life. To make himself at home in my quiet little piece of the world and he was something of welcome company. We had had similar circumstances after all. However, I soon found he liked to dredge up emotions in me best forgotten and he was not the type to leave things alone. So even though we amused ourselves with conversation of destruction and terror it was not enough. He wanted to take on the world and I was going to join him. That was that. I cannot honestly say that I cared either way. To stay alone or pillage with him it made no difference to me. I had no love for mankind and I did enjoy the power. It was nothing like I had felt in my entire life. I had always been subservient in some way, at best I was simply lesser than. When I rode with him I was greater than all around me. I gave all who crossed our path good reason to fear me. Strategy came so naturally to me. I could see all the pieces fall before they were even set up. I was for once valued, wanted, I was skilled in a way that gave me the upper hand. I also couldn't help but think that if we were attacking others we wouldn't be attacking each other."

They sipped their drinks in silence, Methos letting Joe take in what he had said. He knew this part of his history would be as hard for Joe to hear as it was for him to talk about. Once he felt they were both ready to continue he said, "You know the rest. We rode for what seemed an eternity. His anger never easing, his need to devour the entire world only growing stronger. He became the tyrant he was always going to be and I had had enough long before I stopped riding with them. It had lost its satisfaction for me. All the brutality and bloodshed was too much. It left me with a soured taste in my mouth and a nauseous weight in my belly. I planned my exit for years. It was simple but had to be perfectly timed. So when the opportunity presented itself at the right time, in the right place I switched clothes and swords with a man who challenged me. I melted into the world and the horsemen thought I was dead."

"Seems simple enough but why not kill them. End their rampage?" Joe could hear the irritation in his own voice.

"I didn't hate them Joe. Except Caspian, I never cared for Caspian. Still, they were my brothers and I had sworn myself to them. I just couldn't do it anymore."

"I, I don't know what to say Methos. It's hard for me to see you, the man I know, as that monster. All these years and I still haven't wrapped my head around it."

"I should be grateful for that." Methos said. They sat in silence for a while. Joe's emotions were in a tug-of-war between the old anger of Methos having been part of so much death and destruction and a newly found pity for all that had brought him to that point. His feelings finally landed on the middle ground of acceptance, "You've never found any peace have you."

That old familiar wall went up in Methos' eyes. That contradictory sad and amused grin returned. "A concept I cannot wrap MY head around Joe." He tilted the whiskey bottle Joe's direction as if to say cheers and took a long drink of the stinging alcohol. He took a deep breath as it chastised his mouth and throat. He had walked over to a window and was absently staring out at the traffic below. "It's nothing I don't deserve, this lifetime of regrets. I tried for a while to put that monster behind me. To make amends, to give instead of take, to do good by my fellow man. When all of that failed I disappeared from the world, from the game, to make of myself a myth. Yet here I am, known, and worse than that in league with the highlander! An avenging angel if ever I saw one. God knows why I've made it this long. Some cosmic joke."

Not sure what to say to comfort five-thousand years of sorrow Joe settled for confronting the moment at hand, for giving Methos something current to turn his thoughts to. "Maybe you're here brother to see an old man across the river." It was a strategy that would have worked if Methos were as young as he looked.

Methos turned from the window and looked at Joe, "Well, it's all good then."

"You know what I mean."

"What? That all of life comes down to the small moments. That it's the little things that count. Who cares about all the wrongs you do as long as you walk old ladies across the street. As long as you hold the door for others, say please and thank you." He shook his head, "or see a friend through his last..."

"Well, yeah something like that you arrogant old son of a bitch." Joe caught himself. He hadn't realized he had become so agitated. Methos shook his head again and turned away, "Why did I let you talk me into this conversation?"

Didn't exactly have to twist your arm, Joe thought, "Because I'm dying and you're a lonely old man that needs someone to know his secrets." Methos looked at him with a hint of some unreadable emotion playing across his eyes. Joe went on, feeling liberated by his approaching mortality and the whiskey. "Listen, I may be young in your eyes but to the rest of the world I'm kinda a wise old man. I know a thing or two about the bullshit of life. So listen to me for a second cause I'm gonna talk to you like I would talk to that twenty-thirty-something year old you used to be, cause frankly I'm getting' a pretty clear picture of that guy right now. It seems to me you're still that guy in a lot of ways and you could hear a few words form an old mortal. So for a little bit just let yourself listen to me."

Methos dropped his head and nodded. "You gotta let somebody in and not just those of us on the way out…" Methos started to say something, "Uhuh, no you don't. This is my time." There was that damn enigmatic grin again but Methos quieted all the same. "You got dealt a shitty hand, you had a shitty reaction; you've since made some shitty choices. Granted the recent ones were passive, harmless choices but pretty shitty all the same."

Methos pushed himself from the wall, hands in his pockets, "I didn't know you thought so much of me Joe." His grin had turned obviously forced. Joe knew what he was doing. He was trying to throw him off, distract him, at the very least he was closing himself up emotionally. Normally his response would be an equally smart-ass, dismissive jibe and he'd let the whole conversation go, but not today. "I do think a lot of you Methos. I can honestly say more than most I've known. I've seen your heart and it is good man. It's really, really good. You could be 'the one' if you fought half as hard for yourself as you do Mac."

"Oh no. There you are wrong my friend. I've always fought very hard for myself." There was a new bite in his tone.

"Fighting for your head is one thing. Fighting for your soul is another."

Methos was silent. It was, perhaps, the first time Joe had ever seen him at a loss for words. He dropped his head and mumbled something along the lines of 'you have to have one first' before swilling more of the ever vanishing whiskey.

Joe became incensed. He cared too much and had too little time. If it took some verbal slaps to make Methos see how he felt he would do it, "See, there it is! That's what I'm talking about!"

"What?" There was no emotion, zilch. Joe felt as if Methos' walls had crumbled and he was seeing him truly stripped bare for the first time in their relationship. It was intimidating. Like staring down a lion in a cage just as you realize the cage door is open. But he went on, "That kid, that young man who was pushed down time and again still in you making it so quick and easy for you to dismiss what you have to offer."

Methos' entire being snapped shut while simultaneously exploding. "What I have to offer! What I have to offer Joe! I've had five-thousand years to see what I have to offer, what the world has to offer! I've amused this little lecture but let me tell you something now Joe Dawson. This world doesn't need the likes of me and I certainly don't need this world. I would gladly give up my head tomorrow if I thought it would do the right one the right good. Don't you understand? I'm old, I'm tired, I've seen more than enough of this world to even feign interest in my place in the scheme of things beyond the bloody game. Have you never listened? You're ready to pack it in Joe? Well guess what buddy I've been there a million times over and yet I get to go on." He caught his breath. Once calm, he continued, "Don't preach to me about who I really am or could be. I've tried them all and I haven't the will or energy to try any longer." He ran his hand down his head and face, ashamed at his explosion, his unfair anger toward Joe. "Thank heaven above or hell below I am no longer that child you think you see so clearly." He gently put the whiskey bottle down on a nearby table. He grabbed his coat from the coat-rack and made his way to the door. "I'll be back. I just need some air." As he was closing the door, he said without turning around, "This was a mistake. I'm sorry Joe."

"I just don't want you to be alone…" he said to the closing door, "after I'm gone." Joe's words were wasted on the air. The door clicked shut and his place was silent. Joe was left feeling uncertain. He had been so sure he had seen the truth of things, so certain of his motives, he had plunged headlong into a dark room.


	2. Of Memory Chapter 2

The newly edited chapter two. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for Reading!

********************************Of Memory*******************************************

Methos stood outside of Joe's door collecting his emotions. "…after I'm gone." He heard Joe's muffled words through the closed door. It was just as he feared it would be, this tearing away of so much artifice. It left him feeling raw, tender to even the touch of the cold door behind him. He pushed away and walked outside. The cold air was biting and he wrapped his coat closer, bowing his head against the onslaught. His destination was uncertain. He knew it was foolish to be out while so distracted, but he didn't care. He was feeling the fool.

He berated himself as he walked for snapping at Joe. He hadn't deserved it. He meant well, he cared, and in return his kindness was met with contempt and anger. You are such an asshole, he told himself. Old and wise my ass. The thought was laughable. He owed Joe an apology and he would give it, but first he had to clear his head. He had to shake off this agitation that stirred within him.

He was infuriated with everything. The cruelty of life, the unfairness that someone like Joe's time was so short, while he lived on, ungrateful. Sure, he was world weary and exhausted but it hadn't been right to complain to Joe of that. When the man would probably give most anything for more time. He was unworthy of the long life he had received and Joe's suggestion otherwise, in the face of so much proof, had infuriated him for more reasons than he could explain. Even Joe calling him good-hearted had sent a shot of frustration and resentment through him. Maybe he had been good once but he had done too much, seen too much for goodness. He was hard and bitter. Surely Joe could see that.

He was enraged at all he had gone through so long ago. His reaction to those things, his choices. Joe was right they were shitty, all. He had made so many mistakes, inflicted so many wrongs. Sure he had done what he had to survive, and more than that, to survive on his terms. But that didn't make them right and it didn't spare him the regret. So he lectured himself that regrets and guilt served no useful purpose but he wouldn't pretend he was some saint. Not even for Joe, not even now.

He thought of the life Joe suggested. A life where he let more friends in, opened himself up. He wished it were possible but to make deep connections, to even casually "open-up", were no more options for him than remaining hidden had proven to be. Was Joe really blind to the limits he had to live within? His head was a prize. He had to watch every move he made. Every action had to be weighed against the consequence. Friendship and love opened the door for fatal mistakes. He had to be so very careful not just for himself but for anyone he attached himself to. Joe understood more than most what an immortals life entailed. Did he really not see the tight-rope he walked upon? The thought left him feeling a heavy sort of loneliness and disappointment that bordered on betrayal.

Absently he kicked at a pebble. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe he should try to be more in the world. It's not like his hiding away had done anyone any favors. But was it even an option after so long out of the game? He had dipped his toes in the water being friends with MacLeod and look at how often that had nearly cost him everything. It was a waste of time to wonder about such things. There were no easy answers, not after so many lifetimes, if ever. Damn him, if there were even hard ones he had yet to find them. There were only more questions. One piled on top of the other spawning little progeny harder to answer than the last. One would be overtaken if they climbed into that pile. He shrugged, maybe he just thought too much.

Distracted, he bumped into a passerby. "I'm sorry, excuse me." He put his hand on the strangers arm and was taken aback by the large, round, vaguely familiar face that stared back at him. "Silas." He said, uncertain if the name had escaped his lips or not. The only response the man gave was a silent scowl as he continued on his way. The sound of hoof-beats, the approaching clatter of saddle and sword, made its way to Methos' ears. He didn't look to see which way the sounds came from, he knew. They were phantoms, nightmares of his own creation who rode in his mind alone. He pushed them away. It was nothing new. He closed his eyes a second before watching the large man meander down the sidewalk.

He thought of his brothers, his twisted, demented brothers. In the end he had wronged them. He had wielded the blade that ended their lives. If not directly than through manipulation. He could say it was his responsibility to put an end to it. But deep down he knew he had done what he had simply to survive. He had made a choice and if there was any deeper, nobler purpose for his actions he would not allow himself the thought. He would not reason his guilt away this time. He owed them that much. With their end he had found a peace. No longer did he have to look over his shoulder, to wonder when Kronos would find him again. It was over. For that he was grateful. They could join the ranks of all his other demons.

He watched his faint shadow lead the way, pulling at his feet. The ghosts of his past once acknowledged were no longer content with merely watching. They began to dance around him. One by one they mocked him, whispered in his ears, demon, curse, monster. Relentless all. Amongst the crowd his first wife stepped forward. Calm, silent, her foremost place amongst his tormentors assured. Her face was as cold and heartless as the day she watched him sink beneath the waters. How he had loved her. How he had loved her even after she had sacrificed him, despite the lunacy of it. It was why he had fallen so hard, so quickly, and easily for Alexa. Gentle, brave, strong Alexa was the mirror image of his first wife. Yet she possessed all of the sweetness that those early times would not, cold not allow. Just looking at her had made him feel like a young man again. He had allowed himself the thought that they were being given a second chance. Even up till the day he had lost the Methuselah Stone he had thought it was not only possible but meant to be. How cruel had fate proven to be in the end. He shook them all away. All the regret, the longing, the anger, all the maddening loss they carried with them was too much.

He blew warm air into his cupped hands. The chill of the evening breaking through his thoughts. It was then that he realized he had wandered to the Seine. He stared at the dark water. Part of him wanted to jump in, to sink beneath the surface and never return. Shouldn't that have been his destiny after all? Twice over he was given to the waters by his fellow man only to return. Their sacrifice not accepted. He was being honest with Joe when he said he didn't remember being under for all those weeks. What he didn't, couldn't allow himself to tell Joe, was about after. The nightmares, the endless shivering as if his body would never lose the chill of the water, and the fear. The fear of water that lingered still. Even as he watched the gentle waves created by a passing boat lap on the Seine's surface he felt it. So much time and still those ancient wounds could take hold of him. No he couldn't share that with Joe.

A buried anger swelled within him. Anger for all the wrongs, the sins of omission, the necessary evils, the distrust and suspicions he had to create. All to extend a cursed life. A life that, as far as he was concerned, should have ended with the antler of an elk. He had wanted nothing more than to simply live, to find peace, to rest at the end. He would have been grateful for the years spent with his wife. Happy with the life they had created. Wouldn't that have been enough?

He fell to his knees before the water of the Seine, of time, of memory. He pounded the ground, allowing himself one single moment of unrestrained emotion.

He thought of Joe, alone in his home, dying. His only companion one of the damned creatures he had spent his life watching. And for what? What had he, or Mac, or any of their kind ever done for Joe Dawson? Wasted his life, that's what. He raged aloud to no one, nothing, for silence was the only answer his pleading ever received.

He remained on his knees. His forehead pressed against the ground, his hands laced together behind his head. Part of him wanting to cry, wanting to pull his hair and rend his clothes as was a custom. But there were no tears left within him and he hadn't the energy to feed such sorrow. He took deep breaths until the fire raging inside him died down. The ground was cold against his skin. He pushed himself up to sit on his heels. He gazed at the city before him. This too, this beautiful city would crumble. Would he live to see it or would he be the first to succumb to times destruction? The fading light of day cast an amber glow on the buildings and made the frost sparkle like diamonds.

It was then, caught in admiration of man's skill and nature's fierce perfection, that he felt the buzz of another immortal. He drew in freezing air that stung his nostrils and forced his eyes to tear-up. That was it then. He clinched his jaw, composing himself, his face turned to stone. Introspection gave way to instinct. He stood dusting the frost from his clothes. It was time to move on, not just in this moment, but in the bigger picture. He had to leave this city. He had to find someplace remote, isolated enough for him to collect himself in peace. If he were to survive, he had come to learn about himself, he had to be alone for a time.

He put his hands in his pockets and walked in the opposite direction of the other immortal. A little voice nagged at him. He was running away from the truth and the grief he would soon have to face. He should have never allowed the day to take the turn that it had, he admonished himself. How could he have? _Because you're a lonely old man that needs someone to know his life's secrets just once, _Joe's words rang in his ear. He should have known better. "Bloody old fool." He said aloud to the night alone. He raised his collar and pulled his coat tighter around himself. He would return to Joe. He would see him across and then he would go. He would go to steady himself and to mourn. Mourn not only Joe but all that could have been, all that was, and all that was yet to be.

Once back at Joe's he entered quietly hoping to find him asleep but the blues man was reclining on the couch. Headphones on, eyes closed, he swayed to the music playing in his ears. Methos watched as he began taking off his coat. As if he could feel eyes upon him, Joe looked over. "Hey you're back." He sat up, taking off his headphones as he did. "I was waiting for you."

Methos turned around to hang up his coat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew he had to have a better disposition, if not for himself than for Joe. He turned around, "Turns out it's a bit chilly for a walk." He rubbed his hands together to emphasize the point as he walked to the kitchen. He pushed his sweater sleeves up and grabbed a tea pot from the stove, filling it with water. "Tea?" he asked Joe from over his shoulder.

Joe curled his nose slightly, "Nah. Thanks." Methos lit the burner and placed the kettle upon it. "Coffee then?" He began looking through the cupboards not remembering where exactly he had placed the coffee.

"I'm good." Joe said from the living room. Methos shrugged slightly, stopping his search. "Methos about earlier. I'm…" Joe sounded hesitant.

"Don't be. You have nothing to apologize for." Methos dropped his head.

"No, I shouldn't have pushed."

"Joe, I am sorry you had to. I haven't dealt with things properly, perhaps. And I certainly had no cause to snap at you. I'm sorry"

The old mortal made a grumbly growl from his spot on the couch, "It's forgotten, history."

Methos said to himself, "That it is." He made his way into the partition of the living room and leaned against the wall, waiting for the tea pot to whistle. Joe looked up at him, "I just worry about you sometimes." Methos' gaze dropped to his exposed arm, "I know you do Joe."

"It's a lonely life." He was speaking for the both of them. Methos finally looked up, "Yeah, well isn't that the way of old age…loneliness?" Methos shook himself from the approaching solemn mood. He pushed from the wall and returned to the kitchen. He removed a cup from the cupboard and placed tea in the bottom. "But we do all get over it eventually." He said aloud, not certain Joe would even hear him, as he returned to the living room.

Joe stared at him, "Some of us sooner than others." Methos said nothing and Joe could see the walls were back up. He wasn't going to get more than wise-ass remarks and lousy jokes out of him. He stared intently at his friend, "You're a tough old nut. You know that."

"Takes one to know one." Methos grinned and moved farther into the living room, taking a seat on the edge of a chair. That was what had made them such good friends after all. They did know each other all too well. Even before today's conversation. They had both seen the best and the worst of mankind but more importantly they, neither one, tried to convince themselves or anyone else they were heroes or saints. They both had their demons, their doubts, their regrets, and they faced them daily. They recognized a kindred soul, one in the other.

"Yeah." After a long pause Joe finally said, wrapping up his headphone cord. "I don't know how you guys do it. Go on and on." He knew he couldn't do it. Methos was right, he was ready. Ready to see who and what waited for him on the other side.

"One foot in front of the other Joe. Simple." He stared at Joe a moment and smiled, "Come on have some tea with me before I call it a night."

Joe took in the youthful grin that accompanied such tired eyes. _Simple my ass_, he thought. "Fine. Fine. You still offering that coffee?" He had to admit he needed this easy exit from the day's tension.

"Coffee, tea, hot cocoa, name your poison. I am here to serve." Methos stood from his edge of the chair and began walking back to the kitchen. "How 'bout some aspirin too. My head is killin' me." Joe called after him.

"Shame you can't hold your liquor. You lush." Methos called back.

Joe humphed, "Lush."

The two men shared a silent moment, a private exchange, as Methos prepared their drinks. They had come to something of an understanding. This was where they would part. Joe had some of the answers he wanted but he would have to leave them here. Methos in turn would have to continue on putting his past behind him, and one day soon that would include Joe. For now though, they would share some warm drink and good company. They would live in the moment. For in the end, mortal or immortal, it was all they were allowed.


End file.
